Another Kill, No Dying
by btch sprinkles
Summary: Series Deaf!Sam, Inspired by Ash telling Dean that the Winchester boys die. A lot. Sam's Heaven is not Dean's Heaven, but in the end it's always the boys VS the world. Or... Heaven, if you will. Features kid!Sam in Dean's heaven.


His eyes opened. He gasped, feeling like his lungs had been devoid of air for hours. He felt the urge to cough, but he suppressed it as his wary, constantly watchful eyes scanned the area. An alley. A familiar alley. What the hell? Hadn't he just been… somewhere else? Fighting something…

A flash of teeth and daggers and blood hit him and he staggered back. He looked down at his hands, his button up shirt, his jacket. Everything was so… clean. Odd. Dean Winchester was almost never clean.

A tug at his jacket startled him and he looked at the bright, curious face of a kid. He looked to be about eleven or twelve, eyes wide and expressive, already too-tall for his age, his jeans coming to a stop well above his sneakers because no one had thought to try and keep up with the boy's growing needs.

His hands resting by his sides were twitching in anticipation as Dean looked at his twelve-year-old brother. He could see those old, broken hearing-aids poking up through the shaggy, light brown hair that desperately needed a trim.

His hand flew up to his chin, tapping a Y with a frown. 'What's wrong?'

Dean coughed and his head was kind of spinning and he had no idea where he was, but goddamn everything looked so familiar. He looked to the left and saw they were standing outside of one of those old fashioned theaters with the long, blinking signs with an arrow and a sign up top that read, Fingers and Hands production presents, Midsummer Night's Dream.

It hit Dean hard, like a ton of bricks, nearly throwing him off his feet as Sam stood there staring, demanding with those wide eyes of his for Dean to tell him what the hell was going on.

But Dean remembered this, and Sam wasn't wondering why Dean was standing there in all of his thirty-one-year-old glory. No, the kid wanted to know where they were, because a sixteen-year-old Dean had stolen the Impala and taken Sam thirty-miles north of the piss-drunk town John was holed up in, to San Francisco because someone had mentioned to Dean that at an all-Deaf theater troupe was putting on a Shakespeare play in the city and Dean wanted to give that to Sammy. Because hell Sammy had been through a lot and John was just a lousy dad, and Sam never had anything that was just for him.

"Has to be a dream," he muttered and when Sammy didn't react to Dean's speech, because Sam always drew attention to Dean when Dean spoke without signing, Dean just decided to go with it.

Blood. Fangs. Gore. Pain.

Dean blinked against the weird barrage of images and didn't think too much on it. His dreams were all pretty fucked up anyway, and hell if he could have this moment with Sammy, why the hell not. It was a damn good day.

Dean remembered what he was supposed to say no, too, and he grabbed Sammy by his shirt and dragged him to where the sign was visible and then put his pinched fingers beside his eyes and opened them, lighting up his own expression with the sign. 'Surprise, Sammy!'

Sam's hand were flying through the air now, a thousand questions, his feet bouncing as he started reading the posters tacked up on the wall, and noticing the short line of people at the front door and they were all signing and Sam just looked like he was going to float away.

Dean's heart wrenched, but in that really damn good way and suddenly they were buying tickets and Sammy was tugging at him as they passed a concession stand, his fingertips touching his mouth eagerly.

Dean drew his finger down from his mouth to Sam. 'Sure.'

Sam literally was bouncing now as his fingers flew. First pinched, bouncing upwards in the air, and then a middle finger inside of a fist and then the middle fingered hand slapping down on top of the fist, then two fingers brushing down off of his chin. 'Popcorn, soda, candy?!"

Dean threw his head back and laughed, nodded his fist and drew the kid up to the counter. Sam didn't stop signing, but Dean ordered the food and then Sam was forced silent as he clutched the giant bucket of buttery goodness in one hand and the oversized soda in the other.

They had pre-assigned seats and were ushered there by a man in all black who could actually sign, which Sam at this point looked like he wanted to cry. Then they sat and Sam reached over and threw his arms around his brother and squeezed him like he never wanted to let go. Dean did cry at this point, but the lights had gone down a bit and he didn't think Sammy had noticed as the lights went down.

Music began, but it wasn't really music, it was great big percussion instruments and they were pressed to the wooden floors and when the musicians banged on them, it sent a ripple of vibrations through the floors and seats and Sam gasped.

He waved his hand over his arm and then touched his ear and grinned so hard his cheeks probably hurt. 'Deaf music!'

Dean nodded to the stage as actors came out and Sam was glued to it. And it was so stupid, because plays were for girls, but you know what, this was Dean's dream, Dean's memory and he didn't have to tell anyone that this was one of his best days. No one could take that from him.

Blood. Screaming. "Sammy!"

Dean was thrown back into the theater seat, only it wasn't there anymore and suddenly he was in a field and it was nighttime and Sam was gone. Rubbing his eyes, Dean climbed to his feet and groaned. "What the hell?"

"Dean."

At the sound of the rough, grating voice, Dean turned and groaned as the khaki trench-coated angel that Dean fucking hated stood there, his ever-constipated face staring at Dean like Dean was a naughty child.

"Cas."

"We need to talk."

"Why are you in my dream, Cas?" Dean was pissed now, because why couldn't these fuckers just leave him alone. I mean come on.

Cas's face fell and Dean suddenly felt terror race through him, and this desperation for Cas not to speak nearly brought Dean to his knees. He knew what Cas was about to say and fuck no… no. He didn't… he couldn't…

"You're not dreaming, Dean. You're dead."

"Sammy?" Dean said, signing the S-Y above his heart out of habit.

"Him, too," Cas said.

Dean felt like he was going to puke, and since there was nothing for him to grab onto, he just sort of sank into the wet grass and put his head between his legs. Could you puke when you were dead? When you were in… wherever the hell they were?

"Heaven," Cas said.

Dean's head shot up and his face fell. "Heaven? I'm in _Heaven_?" That thought hit him, hard and it almost hurt because he sure as shit did not deserve to be in heaven. Sammy- sure. That kid was a saint, even with the demon blood and the whole letting Lucifer loose. But no, not Dean.

A flicker of something passed on Cas's face and then the Angel shrugged. "I've been ordered to return you to your body."

"I'm not going without Sammy," Dean said and climbed up. "You tell whatever son of a bitch ordering you around that we're not your butt-monkeys and it's both of us or neither of us." He jabbed his finger against Cas's chest for good measure.

Cas took a step back, rolling his eyes. "Obviously, Dean. You need to go and retrieve your brother and help him come to realize he's dead. Once your souls have realized it, you can return. I'll find you."

"And how the hell do I find—" but Cas was gone and Dean was talking to air. Or… whatever was in heaven in place of air. Dean brought his hands to his shoulders and fluttered them away, then a B to his chin and jutted it forward. 'Angel bitch.'

There was a road though, cutting into the trees and every instinct told Dean to just walk it. So he did. And he thought it would be miles, but three steps in and he was in a neighborhood. It looked… familiar. He'd been there before wherever it was. One house sat with the lights on, and there was snow on the ground and Dean knew he should be goddamn freezing but, he wasn't.

He walked to the door and opened it. The smell of food hit him, and he wasn't hungry but it was intense. There was a Christmas tree in the corner of the room, fairy-lights all over the place, over the windows and stair banister, and there was the sound of scraping plates and laughter from around the corner.

Dean turned and saw then the scene. A pretty girl, long black hair and wide green eyes. Dean recognized her, some kid from Sam's longest stretch in any school, a Deaf school. Seven months he was there, a damn genius they learned, Sam was.

It was her family, it seemed, and Sam was there, the twenty-seven year old Sammy, in his stupid plaid and jeans, and he was smiling and signing about school and the math team he was on and the family was smiling and it was so… damn normal.

Then Sam looked up and saw Dean and looked panicked for a moment. His hands reached up, 'Why are you in my dream?'

Dean dragged his A hand under his chin and then touched his forehead with his crooked finger, wiggling it upwards. 'Not a dream.' He beckoned Sam over with a head-nod and Sam rose. The family carried on without him, and Sam frowned but he followed Dean into the darkened living room.

"Hey Sammy," Dean said aloud.

Sam's face went kind of white and he cleared his throat. "I never hear in my dreams." His voice was a hearing person's voice. It was the voice Sammy would have had, if he hadn't been born deaf. It was deep, like Dean's, but not as rough. And kind of… kind of nice.

"Yeah, I know," Dean said.

Sam's face fell and he looked back at the family again. "Are we...?"

"Dead?" Dean asked. He nodded his fist once. Hearing Sam or not, signing was their language.

Sam sighed and rubbed his fingers back through his hair. "Shit."

Dean gave a resigned nod. "Cas is here. Somewhere. Wants to put us back in our bodies."

"Uh yeah, okay," Sam said. He looked back at Dean and smiled. "Feel like we've done this before?"

Dean laughed. "Yeah, man, too many times." He surveyed the scene again and shook his head. He pulled the Y down from his head and then tapped his upturned palms in the air. "Why this place, Sammy?"

"This was the first time I'd met a hearing family with a Deaf kid," Sam said with a shrug, looking over at the little black haired girl who was signing to Sam's now-empty chair. "It was the first time I realized that not all hearing parents treated their Deaf kids like shit."

Dean took that like a punch to the gut and he swallowed hard. Wasn't heaven supposed to be full of those moments that didn't make you want to cry, or stab something. He wanted to be angry at Sammy, too, because his best memory was some place away from him, away from Dean and John and all the bullshit they went through.

"Her name was Annabeth Crowley."

Dean's eyes shot up. "Crowley?"

Sam laughed. "Yeah. Yeah. Funny."

"Ironic."

"I never thought about it. She was always," and Sam tapped a C at the side of his eye. "And Crowley was always," and he tapped a D on his nose which quickly curved down to a C. It was the sign for dick, with a C for that smarmy son-of-a-bitch. No one had to guess who came up with that sign name, and being that Sam hated that asshole demon, he didn't protest too much.

Dean snorted and he gave a shrug. "Any time now, Cas. This is getting all kinds of Oprah down here."

They were met with silence and Sam looked at Dean uncomfortably. "Where were you?"

"Uh, doesn't matter, dude," Dean said, but Sam's pressing gaze and quick palm rubbing the center of his chest and Dean caved like a little bitch. Because only Sammy could make him cave like that. "We were at that stupid uh…" Dean bicycled his A hands toward his body. "Play. Thingie. The Shakespeare I took you to."

Sam's eyebrows shot up and he shook his hand in front of his body, then tapped the air with a Y sign. 'Wow, that?'

Dean rolled his eyes and his head followed, turning away from his brother, which was okay now that Sam could hear him. The blind shall see, the deaf shall hear, Dean thought, and wondered if Sam gave a shit. "Yeah well… it was a good day."

"No," Sam said, and Dean slowly turned to him. With a frown, Dean crossed his arms as Sam faced him, his expression serious and intense. "It was a great day. Dean, that was one of my best days, too."

Dean felt his throat constrict, hating that Sam could make him feel this fucking much. Stupid ass kid, I mean Dean hadn't asked for this. "Yeah well, look where we are."

Sam reached out and put it on Dean's shoulder and squeezed it. "Yeah. Look where _we_ are. Look where we are, and where they are." Sam waved his hand over at the dining room.

"It's gonna suck when we get back," Dean said. "I think we were fighting some sort of demon bear or something."

Sam laughed. "I'm starting to remember."

"Maybe Cas will heal us this time—"

qp

Dean sat up with a gasp. He was in a hotel room, his shirt sticky and stiff with blood. He was torn up pretty good, but he was okay. "Sammy!" he shouted and looked around. For a moment he didn't see anything, and then Sam came stumbling out of the bathroom, his shirt off, his skin tinged red a little, but he was fine. They were fine.

Sam tapped the thumb of his five hand on his chest and then made a half-hearted gesture towards Dean.

Was he? His head was pounding and heart racing, and he had no idea how the hell they'd ganked that thing, but it was dead and they were alive. He finally gave a nod and got up to get dressed.

Hours later found them in a bar. It was some wanna-be piano bar with some emo dude at the keys singing his angsty heart away about probably a sandwich or something—Dean never understood what the hell those guys were talking about—and he was scarfing a burger like he had never eaten before.

Neither Winchester remembered how they'd made it back there but Sam seemed unconcerned about it. He'd tapped his temple, then threw both hands down with fingers out. 'Shock.'

Dean shrugged, not buying it, but worse things had happened. The waitress appeared a little later and with how wrecked Dean looked, Sam started to pull out his wallet, and of course Dean started to stop him.

Sam smacked the pinky side of his sideways hand onto his flat palm and then turned to the waitress. "Let me pay, ignore my brother," he said aloud to her and passed a wad of cash.

She looked intensely uncomfortable with Sam's accent but took the money and hurried off. Sam sighed and turned back to Dean and Dean hated that look on his brother's face because it wasn't fair.

'I wonder what my voice would sound like, if I wasn't deaf,' Sam wondered, tapping his ear almost lazily.

Something stirred in Dean and the echo of a voice sounded through his head. Just an echo, and for a moment he thought maybe he knew, but it was gone just as fast as it came.

He quirked a hooked finger over his lips, then dropped one K hand on top of another and shook them. 'Who cares. They're all assholes.' He finished with his first finger curled under his thumb, the rest of his fingers splayed out.

Sam snorted and gestured at Dean and then dropped one L on top of the other. 'You're right.'

"Always am," Dean said aloud, and Sam read the words from his lips and laughed again. Dean held his beer up to Sam and they clinked beer bottle necks. 'Here's to another kill, and no dying.' He waved his thumb in a semi-circle, harshly drew a K past his left palm, pinched his first and middle finger to his thumb, and then hands out, one palm up, one palm down, and he flipped them.

Sam nodded and frowned. It sounded wrong but what else could it be. Because that's what they did right? Killed things, survived, and with the Winchesters, it was just another day on the job.


End file.
